


A Common Disaster

by WHYDar



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Gen, My First Fanfic, Not enough works in this fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WHYDar/pseuds/WHYDar
Summary: An unexpected text message and a disturbing case lead to crisis for Riggs. Will Avery, Cahill, Roger, and Trish be able to protect him from himself, or will he be driven over the edge?*************************************************************************Not strictly cannon, though trying to follow along with events as they unfold in the episodes. Title and chapter titles inspired by the songs of Cowboy Junkies.





	1. Sun Comes Up it's Tuesday Morning

Maureen liked an early start on Tuesdays. Slipping into the office just as the first of the night shift made their bleary way out, a large paper cup of herbal tea clutched in one hand, her keys and briefcase in the other, gave her a satisfying sense of accomplishment and purpose. After unlocking her office door and letting herself in, Maureen raised the blinds and took a moment to enjoy the view of LA from the floor length windows behind her desk, before taking a sip of tea and settling herself in front of her computer.

_Tuesday._

_Riggs._

Maureen sighed and looked at her watch: about an hour - give or take - before the tornado that was Martin Riggs swept into her office for his  weekly session. The early start gave her time to review her notes from his last session. Riggs tried to whirl her around his issues, using distractions, B-movie plots, and tall tales as his chief defenses against her gentle but determined probing. It was best to be prepared - if she wanted to get to the eye of his particular storm. 

The ping of an arriving text message interrupted her musings. Just as she glanced over at her phone several more pings rang out in quick succession.

"Hold your horses" she muttered under her breath as she swiped in her pass-code and read the first text from an unknown sender: 

_Good morning._

_Thought you should know._

_You're welcome._  

What followed were a number of images that made her gasp in shock. 

"Oh God!" Her phone dropped to the desk as Maureen shoved her chair backwards and stood up, her hands covering her mouth. "God…" she whispered, lowering her hands and wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt. 

Her heart was pounding. She swallowed, trying to control the urge to vomit, and turning, slid open the door to the balcony adjoining her office and stepped out for some air. The fresh air seemed to help with the nausea, so she took a number of deep calming breaths. Then she took a few more. 

 _Follow protocol. There's a protocol for situations like this - so follow it Maureen!_ was her next coherent thought. She went back inside and started with the first step - protecting the evidence. 

By the time she had completed the reporting process and notified the proper agencies, Maureen felt a lot calmer - unutterably sad - but calmer despite the tears prickling in her eyes threatening to overflow. Who could do that to a vulnerable child? 

"Doc! Where do they get those jackasses in parking enforcement? How can it be illegal to sleep sittin' in a perfectly legally parked truck in this town?"

Riggs burst manically into her office, shirt collar half turned under, long unkempt hair flapping about as he gesticulated wildly, with only one pant leg, as usual, half tucked into the sagging top of his boot. 

_Crap. Martin._

She'd completely forgotten - she needed to get it together - Martin tended to be…oddly perceptive. 

"Doc? Everything OK?"

Martin was standing on the rug facing her desk - all that crazy energy abruptly balled up and stuffed away - gazing at her critically through half lowered lids, his face gone suddenly still and intent. 

_Shit. Too late._

"Martin. Good morning. What's this about a parking ticket?" Maureen smiled brightly at Riggs as a tear slid traitorously down her cheek. 

"Nope. Now you know that ain't gonna work on me, Doc." Martin lowered himself slowly into the chair facing her and waited for her to respond - for about two seconds. "What's up Maureen?" he asked gently, while surreptitiously scanning her desk for any sign of what might have upset her. 

"It's fine. I'm fine." Maureen watched Martin raise his hand, finger pointing in the air and lips puckering under his mustache, as he took a breath to speak again. "Really, Martin - I'm fine. There's nothing wrong." She sighed as she looked reassuringly into his wide brown eyes. "Sometimes this job just gets to me, and I need a minute. OK?" 

Martin's mouth snapped shut with a clopping sound. He rubbed his finger under his mustache as he scrutinized her face, his concern evident. As she watched, his expression changed from worried to pure mischief as he folded his hands under his chin and propped himself up on her desk. "Would you like to use your words and tell me all about it? You know I’m always available to listen, Doc." 

Maureen rolled her eyes. "Nice try Martin. Couch. Now." The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she suddenly felt like a weight had lifted.


	2. Hard to Explain

Martin smiled nervously at Cahill sitting in the armchair across from him, her long legs neatly crossed. With her notes perched on her knees, her attention was calmly focused on him. That look - like she could see everything he didn't even know he was feeling or trying to hide. He shifted his gaze to the ceiling, the bookcase, her shoes, anywhere but her face aiming that look right through him like X-ray shrink vision. It was starting to creep him out a little. He rolled his head around looking for inspiration while his outstretched hands thumped a disjointed rhythm on the back of the couch. Inspiration struck. He gave her another one of his best grins: 

"Doc! Bossing me around cheers your up! Who knew? I'm just going to tuck that little particle of intel into my Cahill basket - for future reference 'an all that."

Well, at least that got a real smile - not just a little twitch. She seemed back to her usual self, but he had to admit that seeing her like that earlier had given him a bit of a jolt - if he was being honest  - _Nope, not going there Marty - distraction, need a distraction…_  

"I had coffee with Molly last week. She told me you two weren't together anymore." 

Martin froze. And gulped. Then he took a quick inventory to make sure he knew what all his body parts were doing and where they were, 'cause he felt like an IED had just gone off across the coffee table from him and you never knew what you might find yourself doing immediately after one of those puppies goes off. He blinked and found that he was staring at probably the only blank spot on the wall to his right. 

"Well, why'd she go and tell you that? And what're you two doing having coffee together, anyway? It's an invasion of my privacy, that's what it is! How long has this been going on?" He was on his feet, looming over the low table, his shaking fists balled at his sides before he could stop himself. 

"Only once. Molly asked me to meet her. She's worried about you." 

Martin clamped his jaw shut and closed his eyes. He desperately needed to throw his long legs one at a time over the obstacle in front of him and hightail it outta there, away from that penetrating gaze reading his every little twitch. He needed to run, or hide, anything but stay here and face Cahill for the next forty minutes or so. He lurched forwards, flailing, but somehow his feet in their worn boots stayed glued to the floor between the table and the couch. Unbalanced, he sat down heavily on the seat behind him, his hands going to the mess of long wavy strands hanging down in front of his face. It was all the protection he was going to get. Since the mental hospital case, he'd been trying harder? Maybe? To help Cahill help him - whatever that meant. So he parked his elbows on his knees and waited for the next bomb to go off. The silence ticked along for a dozen or so of his thudding heartbeats before he heard the telltale squeak and rustle of Cahill shifting forwards in her chair. This was going to be bad. 

"She didn't give me any details, other than…she said to ask you about the dog. Martin? What happened with Chuck Norris?" 

He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and leaned forward, hugging his knees with his elbows, his face turned stiffly as far away from Cahill's concern as it could go while still staying hidden behind his unruly fringe. The urge to yell, thrash, howl, smash, and rip things apart was almost overwhelming as he struggled to swallow against the unsettling feeling of sharp rocks clogging his throat. The silence stretched for what felt like hours as he tried desperately to get things under control behind his shield of hair. Slowly, one at a time, he stuffed all the jagged bits back deep down into their box, where Cahill couldn't see them - at least not until she lobbed the next grenade and blew his carefully built fortress apart again. Martin took a deep breath, sat up, and fixed Cahill with a thousand yard glare - always best to use the big guns when you're outmaneuvered, sometimes shock and awe can give you back the advantage: 

"He died." 

Martin watched with seeming dispassion from behind the mask he'd belatedly succeeded in pulling back in place as various emotions washed briefly over Cahill's face. 

"I'm so sorry, Martin. That must have been very upsetting. What happened?" 

An image of Chuck Norris as he'd last held him in his hands, head lolling at a loosely unnatural angle, came to him unbidden. He'd helped bury the little fur ball in the back yard of Molly's rented house, but hadn't realized at the time that the collar he and Ben had picked out together was missing. His eyes burning, he tilted his head all the way back on the edge of the couch behind him and pooched his lips in and out. His skin prickled with the need to move and before he was aware of it, his hands were up in the air and on their way to nowhere good. He barely caught himself in time, and shrugging with his hands flapping somewhere above his head, sighed deeply as his eyes tracked all over the room looking for escape. His hands dropped to his head. Combing the locks out of his face with his twitching fingers, he cleared his throat while he searched for the right combination of words that would satisfy Cahill. Pitching forwards, both palms up in front of him, eyes right he took a quick breath and started in: 

"Well, you see Doc, it's the same old story - I'm sure you've already heard it. Boy reconnects with old childhood friend. They get together. She has a kid. He likes the kid. The kid likes him. So he gets the kid a dog. The girl's not too thrilled about the dog at first, but pretty soon the boy, the girl, the kid, and the dog think they've got it pretty good. Until the dog disappears, the kid is sad, the girl says I told you so, and the dog turns up dead with its neck broken. OK?" 

Martin stole a quick look at Cahill and sniffed. Hopefully, he'd succeeded in rattling through it fast enough she wouldn’t catch the bit about the dog's neck. He never really lied to her - _who was he kidding -_ but he truly wasn't prepared to discuss the reasons behind his split with Molly. He watched as Cahill jerked back in her seat, appalled. 

"Somebody intentionally killed Chuck Norris?" 

He tried to stare her down, but had to abandon the attempt sooner than he liked. Instead he cleared his throat again and shrugged. 

"Yup. When Molly found him, his neck had been cleanly snapped. She told Ben he got hit by a car. She didn't like lying to him, but how could she tell him  someone killed his dog, y'know?" Martin sighed as he looked up into the corner of the room, one hand unconsciously petting one of Maureen's pretty throw cushions. Maybe it would be enough and he could stop having to talk about Molly and Ben? 

"Martin? What happened to the dog wasn't your fault." 

Of course it was his fault! His eyes snapped back to her face, then slid away again. He could feel the guilt oozing out of every pore. He looked over her head at the reflections of LA in the glass doors at the front of her office. The LA in the reflection looked nice and fuzzy, without the sharp edges of the real thing that wore you down because they were a reminder of everything you'd lost. His wife and his boy, Molly and Ben, and now his criminally corrupt father in law who'd been the only real father he'd ever had. Whatever Ronnie Delgado had done his daughters had grown up loving him. It made the betrayal of Miranda's death that much harder to bear, even knowing how much her father had suffered by his own actions. It was too much to think about. Turning away from his painful thoughts, he shook his head like someone shooing away a buzzing fly, and looked at his watch - he sighed in relief. "Time's up. Good session, Doc!" He was starting to rise from his seat, when Cahill voice stopped him cold: 

"Not so fast, Martin." 

He sat back down with a plop and sighed, eyebrows quirking upwards - "What?" 

"We need to take some extra time today. There's something else I need to discuss with you. You're aware that after your viral road rage performance, you and I - yes, Martin…me too - are under increased scrutiny from the department top brass?" 

Martin sighed again, nodded and rolled his eyes, then made the international gesture for vomiting. 

"Martin, look at me." 

The only thing he could think of was the waiting leather covered hip flask of whisky tucked under some files in his desk drawer as he tried to corral his skittering gaze into the general area in front of Cahill's face. He could at least pretend to be looking at her… 

"I appreciate how difficult this is for you. I can see the effort you've started putting into our sessions, and I want you to know…I'm proud of you, Martin." 

Oh.

Well, didn't that just take the biscuit? There was a feeling of unaccustomed warmth starting somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. He stomped it out ruthlessly, lest it take hold and mess everything up. He had enough complications going on. Still, better make an effort - he smiled warmly at her - his aww shucks expression starting to fade as soon as he realized she had more to say. 

"However, the increased scrutiny means that a number of unlikely things get reported back to the top brass - which then get reported down to me." Cahill paused, eyebrows raised questioningly at him, as if he could possibly guess where she was going with this. Her expression said that he should know what was coming next. He was just starting to try and worry out what she might be getting at when she launched the attack. 

You're also aware, of course, that visitor's conversations with Texas state prisoners are recorded?" 

Martin went rigid. Every breath coming short and shallow. He should have seen that one coming. _What is the matter with you, Marty?_ As he waited for the unavoidable, he pulled his thousand yard glare back in place. 

"Why did you visit your father in prison and threaten to kill him?" 

He shot up off Cahill's couch, hand already in his disreputable jacket's pocket, and stood rooted to the spot struggling to control himself. He felt it the instant he lost the battle: the buzzing in his head was replaced by a ringing silence when the something that held everything in just popped like a soap bubble on a cactus. Fighting like a demented man to pull his closed fist out of the narrow pocket slit, he finally succeeded, ripping the opening a little wider in the process. Breathing hard and unfolding his hand, he slapped the object he'd extracted with such violence from his pocket onto the surface of the low table between them. Nostrils flaring above his quivering mustache, he hurled the answer at Cahill: 

"Because he finally sent me a message I couldn't ignore!" 

As Riggs stepped over her coffee table, stumbling slightly as he caught one foot on the edge, and exploded out of her office and down the hall, Maureen stared in shock at the puppy sized dog collar lying where Riggs had left it. She could see the dog bone shaped name tag from where she sat. The engraved CHUCK NORRIS stood out clearly in the bright morning light streaming in from the windows.


	3. I'm So Open

Roger huffed with impatience as he listened to Cahill's tinny sounding voice in his ear. 

"Murtaugh! Are you listening to me? You know I can’t tell you the details, but - trust me - Martin needs you to be there for him today, OK? He's… finally trying….I need you to support him. You know, give him something to keep trying for…can you do that for me?" 

Roger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You mean babysit an alcoholic stick of dynamite with a mustache?" 

"Call it what you want - is he there now?" 

Roger's "Nuh-uh…" morphed into  "…Mm-hmm" as Riggs brushed past him, yanked open his desk drawer, and started digging through the detritus of half-finished reports with both hands, like a dog digging up his buried treasure. 

"Roger…just try to keep him mostly sober, OK?" 

Roger watched from the corner of his eye as Riggs, with an air of relieved triumph, pulled a flask from the mess of paperwork and marched off to wherever it was he went to indulge. 

Roger sighed. "Yeah, I'll do my best Doc." 

"Try the men's room, Roger - the stall nearest the window." 

His eyes bulged as he took in that little piece of info. 

"Roger? Thanks." 

As Cahill hung up, Roger took his phone from his ear and peered suspiciously at it. "Okaayyyy…." _Now how did she know that?_ He glanced briefly around the bull pen. Good, everybody looking busy and where they're supposed to be. A quick check confirmed Avery in his office, staring glumly at his computer screen. Still, Roger hesitated a second, something was off… _Bowman! Where was poster boy?_ With any luck he was out getting soup. Of all things, Roger didn't want any witnesses to the intervention he was about to attempt in the men's room. Not that he was really worried about Riggs' reputation, he just didn't want anyone to watch him fail. _Okay, here goes nothing._ Roger swiped the sunglasses off of his partner's desk and strode off purposefully in the direction of the toilets. 

His stomach dropped as he rounded the corner and spotted Bowman coming out of the men's. "Riggs in there?". Before the young detective could answer, Roger pushed past him and cracked open the door.  
  
"Murtaugh, do you think that if no-one's in there I could use the ladies'…" 

Roger frowned at Bowman. 

"It's just, I really gotta go….and…" Bowman's voice dropped to a stage whisper "I think he's crying in there." 

Roger frowned harder. "NO! Just hold it or piss in a cup, like a normal dude!" he hissed, rolling his eyes. "Now get outta here. Hey! Make sure no-one else comes down here, alright?" 

Roger watched as Bowman trotted down the hall, no doubt looking for a cup as Roger had suggested. Roger chuckled to himself, Bowman's going to be really pissed - _good one Roger Mayfield, good one_ \- when somebody finally tells him about the hidden unisex washroom around the other corner… _Come to think of it, we haven't played that trick on Riggs yet…_  

 _Riggs. Shit._  

Squaring his shoulders and sucking in his slight paunch, Roger pushed open the door and strode into the men's room exuding a confidence he was far from feeling. Thank goodness, the call just before Cahill's had been from dispatch, notifying them of a call-out to a murder scene, so he had a ready-made excuse. 

"Riggs! Where you at? We've got a body!" 

His declaration was met with unnatural silence - for an occupied men's room - he waited a beat. "C'mon man, I know you're in here - Bowman says he saw you come in." 

Roger, advancing along the row of toilet stalls, looked briefly under the door of each one before coming to the last one near the window. A quick glance confirmed the presence of a pair of dilapidated cowboy boots with scruffy jeans haphazardly stuffed into them. As he watched, the boots came up off the floor and disappeared from his field of view. Roger leaned against the washbasin opposite and took a deep breath, praying silently for patience. _Like that, is it?_

"Look man, we gotta go and catch us some bad guys. They killed a kid - so it's kinda important we get going on this one." 

There was a some prolonged rustling and scuffing followed by the snick of the latch being drawn from behind the closed stainless steel door. A second quick glance underneath revealed two boot clad feet firmly planted on the tiles. Before Roger could straighten up, the door was abruptly yanked open, the rumpled figure of his partner suddenly standing too close to him, hip flask clutched in one hand. 

"Why thank you - how thoughtful!" Roger neatly grabbed the flask from his partner's hand and tucked it into the inside breast pocket of his silk sports jacket. Scrutinizing Riggs' bloodshot eyes, red nose, and blotchy face, Roger turned uncomfortably to the sink.  Pulling some paper towels from the dispenser, he wet them with cold water and held  them out to Riggs. 

"You look like you've just been pepper sprayed. Here, press these against your face for a few minutes - it'll help." 

"Fuck you, Rog." 

Roger withdrew the hand holding the dripping paper towels, slapped them into the sink, crossed his arms, and just stared at his partner. It took a minute or two, but eventually he won the contest when a sheepish Riggs dropped his eyes to the floor. Silence stretched awkwardly between them as they listened to the sound of water dripping from the tap in the sink behind Roger. 

"Rog…" - Riggs cleared his throat, one hand rubbing the back of his neck - "…dead kid? How old?" 

"Mm-hmm - twelve maybe fourteen years old - down in Lynwood - found chained in a basement…" Roger examined what he could see of his partner's face carefully. "Think you can handle it?" The look Riggs leveled at him said - _when have I not handled it?_ \- Roger felt the need  to emphasize: "This one's gonna be a bad one." He sighed deeply - _what the hell am I going to do with you?_ He had learned that where policework was concerned he could count on his partner to make connections and put things together that he would have missed, good at his job as he was. He also knew that some of their cases had stirred things up for Riggs, and not in a good way. That was his main worry. Considering his empathic response to some of the victims in their earlier cases, Roger wasn't keen about starting a murder investigation where the victim was a kid who'd been chained in a basement and likely tortured to death - Lord knows what else. 

"Here, put these on, we gotta go." Roger handed over the sunglasses snatched earlier from the surface of Riggs' desk and waited as his partner put them on, tucking his perpetually unruly hair up and out of his face. He shrugged. _I guess it'll be Cahill's problem…who am I kidding, he's my partner…_ Roger watched bemused as Riggs, with a flourish, gestured silently for Roger to precede him out of the room. 

Playing along, Roger bowed comically and made his way out into the hallway. As he turned the corner he felt the weight of his partner's hand settle on his shoulder and squeeze briefly. Riggs cleared his throat again somewhere behind him. He felt a second quick squeeze before the hand left his shoulder, only to jab him sharply in the upper arm. 

"C'mon Rog! You always make us late for stuff!" 

Roger hurried to keep up as Riggs powered past him, elbows high, and boot tops flapping -  his skinny jean clad ass disappearing fast down the hall to the elevators.

"I make us late? Me? You're outta your mind, Riggs! Hey, wait up!"


	4. To Love is to Bury

"I bet you can't name a single time I was the reason we were late for something, Riggs." 

"You were late for RJ's commencement!"

"That was not a WE thing, that was a Murtaugh thing! And YOU made ME late, not the other way around. Besides, I was only fashionably late - I got there before RJ got his diploma and that's all there is to see at those things anyway." 

"I saved your life. If you'd died WE would have been late, 'cause I'd have had to get us both to RJ's commencement, then WE would have been late 'cause I would be carrying your dead body - Ah, ah, ah-ha!" 

"That makes no sense what-so-ever. The only reason I was in danger of dying was because you "extracted" Gideon Lyon and got us into a mess with him and his goons - so it's still your fault" 

"Nice, Rog - so everything's always MY fault…." 

"Look…No! That's not what I meant, OK?" Roger glanced over at the passenger seat. Riggs was looking out the window, his jaw working as he ground his teeth. "Look, man - just relax, OK?" 

"Don't tell me to relax, Rog." Riggs turned and waved his index finger at him as Roger opened his mouth to answer. "Don't! Do. Not." Roger hunched his shoulders and grimaced at the road in front of him. 

"Okay! Not telling you to relax, got it." Roger sighed briefly. They continued for some time in silence. The drive to Lynwood normally took about half an hour, but there was some construction slowing up traffic and they were only about half way there despite already having spent thirty minutes in the squad car. The back and forth arguing was usually kinda fun - it was their "thing", but Roger had to admit that he'd gone a little too far - again. Dammit, never know when to stop - Always putting my foot in my mouth - What was it Gina said? Stop talking two minutes before you think you should stop talking. 

"I'm sorry." both men spoke in unison as they glanced at each other.

Embarrassed, Roger's and Martin's words tumbled over each other: 

"It's Okay"

"No worries, Rog." 

They chuckled a little before settling into a more companionable silence for the remainder of the drive. 

They were pulling up to the condemned bungalow dispatch had directed them to when Roger spoke again. 

"Trish wants you to come over for dinner tonight. She hasn't seen you at the house in more than a month - thinks you need feeding up, or something." Roger presented the invitation as if it were all Trish's idea, but he too had been worried about how thin Riggs seemed to be getting. A steady diet of hard liquor and what? Air? He never really saw him eat anything these days - other than a bite here and there of someone else's sandwich, which Roger suspected Riggs did mostly to annoy the owner of the sandwich rather than for the sustenance. Trish would help with keeping an eye on him. He knew that - fond as he was of her - Riggs was terrified of his partner's wife - so if anyone could get Martin to take care of himself a little, it was Trish Murtaugh. 

"No, Rog I…" 

"You got something better to do? Like what? Sit in that tin can of yours with your friend Jack D?"

Roger stopped the squad car just outside the police tape, shifted it into park, and turned off the engine. 

"Rog…" Riggs growled as he opened his car door. 

"Help a brother out OK? She's been driving me nuts asking about you." Roger tried a falsetto imitation of his wife's voice: "When you going to ask Martin over for dinner? How come he don't come round anymore? Did you two have a fight?" returning to his normal register he groused "I got some great ribs ready to go on the BBQ, but she won't let me have any unless you're there to, air quotes, help me control my appetite." Roger fixed Riggs with an imploring look. 

"You know you don't sound anything like Trish when you do that, don't you? And that look is not endearing - doesn't suit you at all." 

Roger tried another, more over the top, pleading look hoping to wear down Martin's resistance. 

"Stop that! You look ridiculous!" Martin's mouth quirked up briefly as he flapped his hand in front of Roger's face. "Like Antonio Banderas in Shrek." 

"You just call me a cute big eyed kitten?" 

"Yup." 

Roger felt absurdly gratified. "Well, okay then. So?" 

Martin scuffed a boot in the dirt and looked up, squinting. "I dunno Rog, you said yourself this is going to be a rough one…I don't know how fit company I'll be for your family at the end of the day" 

"Since when have you ever been?" Roger teased. He sighed. Time to be brutally honest. "Cahill asked me to keep an eye on you today - she's concerned - so am I - and Trish. This case… I don't feel good about leaving you alone after shift today. You're coming to dinner and you're spending the night. That's all there is to it. No ifs, ands, or buts." 

Riggs held Roger's gaze for a minute, cleared his throat and shrugged. "Fine." 

"Good." Roger nodded, satisfied. "Now, let's see what Scorsese has for us here."


	5. Working on a Building

Their crime scene was a hive of activity. The condemned '50s bungalow in an older section of Lynwood had been partly demolished. It was in fact the demolition crew, now milling about outside the police tape, who made the grisly find when a section of the house they were tearing down with an excavator tumbled unexpectedly. The operator tried to correct his aim but the excavator's shovel went wide and plowed a large furrow through to the foundation. All this was relayed to them by Bailey, who had appeared out of the hole looking the worse for wear.

"They weren't supposed to be touching the foundation" Bailey squinted up at the sun. _Feels like I've been down there for days, but it's only noon…_ "I talked the to the guy in the excavator - name of Mitch Kujavski - he said he'd never seen anything like it - figures the hidden room weakened the foundation and that's what made that section come down unexpectedly"

Murtaugh looked over at his protégé fondly. "You alright, Bailey? You look a little rough around the edges there."

Bailey stretched, spine cracking, and took a deep breath. "I'll be fine - it's the heat - there's barely enough room to even stand up in there, so go careful - Scorsese's already all steamed that the demolition guys were down there. I'm going to take five, then I'll finish taking statements."

Predictably, Riggs was first down the hole. Peering down, Roger had a partial view of the dirt packed floor of the hidden room. Riggs appeared unexpectedly below him, sunlight bisecting his upturned face highlighting one half and casting the other into deep shadow.

"Scorsese says you can come down, but stay to the left of the ladder - he's already processed that area" Riggs' face disappeared into darkness again.

"Riggs!" Roger waited for his partner to re-appear at the foot of the ladder.

"What?" Riggs' head popped back into view.

Waggling his raised hands Roger asked: "My left or your left?"

Riggs smiled. "Nah, Rog. Scorsese's left."

Muttering in irritation, Roger made his way gingerly down the ladder. Reaching the bottom, he was careful to move over to the area that Scorsese had already cleared and indicated with tape. He settled as comfortably as he could next to Riggs, looked around, and began to examine the small low room they were in. It was a little under six feet wide by about ten feet deep. The low ceiling forced them both to stoop and appeared to have been made by placing wooden boards on top of the hole after it had been dug and then covering them over with dirt. There was a low door behind them that should lead through the foundation wall and into the condemned bungalow's now inaccessible basement.

"It's a root cellar - must've been added after they built the house though." Riggs spoke softly beside him. He pointed back to the foundation wall behind them. "That opening was created after the foundation was poured - saw that a lot of that in Iraq - you can see where they cut through."

Roger could see what his partner meant - the opening was slightly rough and irregular - nothing like the outer surface of the foundation that formed the fourth wall of the little room. The door was coarse grey wood that contrasted sharply with the dust coated and spider web bedecked wall it was set in. He looked over at the naked body shackled to the foundation by a long chain. The cramped space smelled musty which was odd considering…

"Scorsese? How long do you figure he's been down here?"

The pathologist looked up briefly from the hand he was examining. "Ummm, well, if you mean how long did it take him to starve to death or die of thirst - depends - if you mean how long since he died - again depends - I'll have to do some tests back at the morgue."

"Couldn'a be more than a week - in these conditions it would take three to four days to die from lack of water." Riggs' voice was gruff. "I'd guess he ain't been dead more than a day at most - it's hot and dry down here - he was dehydrated and starved - so not much to cause a stink yet."

"Lividity isn't fixed yet…" Scorsese nodded in acknowledgement. "…so, I'd say that could be right, not unreasonable anyway. There are a lot of peri-mortem injuries though…and…he was assaulted."

Roger's attention shifted from the body and his partner's unsettling knowledge to Scorsese's grim face. "You mean sexually?"

"I'd say more than once - I'll know more once I've got him back to the morgue. I was able to get a set of fingerprints though" Scorsese held out a standard forensic fingerprint card. "That should help in identification - if he has a juvie record, or his parents had him fingerprinted…"

"Or he was in foster care." Riggs reached out and tweaked the fingerprint card neatly out of Scorsese's hand.

Something off in his partner's voice made Roger turn to look at him. Riggs was squatting on one haunch next to him, outwardly calm, holding the fingerprint card loosely in one hand. His face, however, was wearing that dead mask that Roger had learned tended to hide strong emotions, eyes turned dark and glittering. He looked more closely at his partner. Despite the heat in the underground chamber, Riggs was trembling slightly. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, the man beside him stood suddenly.

"I got this Rog." In one fluid movement, Riggs was past him and up the ladder, his booted feet disappearing into the sunlight rimming the passage to the open air above. Roger sighed.

_Riggs was in foster care…_

The thought shifted some of the puzzle pieces around into a suddenly different pattern. He looked over at Scorsese. Scorsese looked back at him and shrugged silently - they seemed to have reached a consensus. "Bailey has the portable with her - if you hustle you can catch Riggs and make the ID on site if his prints are in a database…" Scorsese hesitated "…there's not really much more you can do here." The subtext was clear. "You're probably right" Roger stretched as much as he could in the cramped space and turned to make his way back up the ladder. "Thanks." he threw the word down over his shoulder as he emerged from the pit, leaving the dim stuffy space and its disturbing contents below him.

Looking for his partner, he spotted Bailey holding what looked suspiciously like a fingerprint card in one hand. Joining her near the equipment van and following the direction of her gaze, Roger located Riggs some distance away near the police tape, talking to a man standing just outside the crime scene perimeter. The discussion appeared to be getting a little heated. Roger watched as his partner jabbed the index finger of his left hand repeatedly in the other man's face.

"Murtaugh? Do you think Riggs could maybe use some…" Bailey hesitated "…help?" They both watched as Riggs, unruly hair flopping into his eyes, straightened to his full height and reached behind him for the handcuffs that should have been hanging from his belt, but weren't because he always left those little details to Roger.

"Nah, ex-navy seal." Roger crossed his arms across his chest and tilted his head towards her. "Did you get a chance to run those prints yet?" Roger kept a wary eye on the developing situation at the police tape nonetheless: Surprisingly, Riggs had his hands up in a placating gesture - it looked like he was trying to reason with his subject. _Will wonders never cease?_

"Got it. Prints are a match to Tim Rodriguez, 13." Bailey's face was unreadable. "Foster kid - Riggs was right. Both parents dead - fentanyl overdoses - never reported missing by the foster parents." Bailey's voice hardened "Collecting state support for him though, what are the chances he's been missing for more than a week?"

"I dunno Bailey, but I think we should find out - Scorsese can confirm it, but my guess would be that Tim's had a rough ride for a while…" Roger trailed off. It was starting to look like it was time to intervene between Riggs and the guy he was talking to. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the subject had pulled a gun on Riggs. Somewhat more surprising, the subject had neatly disarmed his unpredictable partner, who was simply standing there, hands in the air, with what could only be described as a look of murderous rage on his face.

"Bailey? I think maybe Riggs can use some help - before things get outta hand."

"Outta hand, seriously?" Bailey muttered as they both made their way nonchalantly down to where Riggs was being held at gunpoint. Bailey held her sidearm at the ready as Roger approached the pair, hands gesturing for calm.

"LAPD, Detective Murtaugh. What seems to be the problem here?" Roger directed his question at the man holding the handgun.

"FBI, Special Agent Burroughs. The problem is this asshole." Agent Burroughs indicated Riggs with a jerk of his chin.

"That asshole is my partner, and I would appreciate you lowering your weapon, Agent Burroughs" Roger stole a quick glance at his partner: Riggs appeared superficially relaxed, but Roger knew that his partner was capable of explosive action without showing any visible signs unless someone knew him well. Roger was beginning to know Riggs well. Quite well, in fact. "Riggs?"

"Rog." The vibes coming off his partner were singularly bad. Roger's attempt to make eye contact was unsuccessful. "Keep it together, Riggs. Agent Burrows, if you please? We're all law enforcement professionals here."

"Special Agent." Burroughs emphasized as he placed Riggs' weapon in Roger's outstretched hand and holstered his own. "Although professional is a stretch in your partner's case. I was just telling your partner here, Riggs, was it? That we had the house under surveillance but didn't have the auth…" The sentence was never fully completed before Riggs's right hook connected emphatically with Burroughs' jaw.

"You dick! You knew that kid was in there!" the rest was an unintelligible roar as Riggs just lost it. Whatever emotions he had been suppressing down in that hole were being given free reign as Roger briefly watched, shocked and somewhat awestruck, as his enraged partner began to pummel the crap out of Burroughs.

"Murtaugh!" Bailey glared at him urgently, snapping him out of his trance.

"Riggs." Murtaugh managed to grab one of his partner's wildly swinging arms on the first try and haul him off the prostrate FBI agent. "Riggs." Roger spoke forcefully as he gathered his partner in, pinioning his arms with difficulty. Martin struggled to break the hold as Roger shouted: "Riggs!" Keeping a tight grip on his thrashing partner, Roger directed a pointed look at Bailey who was occupied assisting the Special Agent to collect himself off the ground. Bailey nodded at Murtaugh in understanding - there was going to be hell to pay and she was in charge of lowering the bill as much as possible.

"RIGGS!" Roger yelled it point blank into his partner's ear to immediate effect. Martin seemed to go limp in his arms. As he held the suddenly quiescent, but panting Riggs, Roger asked: "You back from wherever?"

"Rog" his partner croaked hoarsely, "Burroughs could have saved that kid - he knew he was in there and he didn't do anything - he could have… he didn’t need to die, Rog."

"If that's true" Roger spoke calmly into his partner's ear "WE will prove it TOGETHER and bring the EVIDENCE to IA. In the meantime…you need to take a breather" Roger rolled his eyes, "and CALM DOWN. This ain't helping anyone, least of all our victim, never mind you." Roger sighed as he frog marched his partner to their car. Reaching the car, Roger forced him into the seat and reached into the center console where he kept some bottled water. He opened the bottle and offered it to Riggs, who indicated his refusal by slapping the console violently shut. "You're getting a time out buddy." Roger sighed again as he sipped some water while examining his partner's mutinous expression. Holding Riggs' glare he could detect a curious mix of guilt, anger, pleading, and a faint glimmer of - _was that fear?_ \- in his friend's eyes.

"Just…Rog, you gotta...I…he admitted it, Rog…that kid would still be alive…"

"I get it, man. It upsets me too." Roger grabbed both his partner's hands before they could slam into the headliner. "You're angry. I get it. So am I. Do you think that because I'm not going apeshit on people that what happened to that kid doesn't bother me?" Roger glared at his partner. "That I don't care as much as you do? Huh?" Riggs pulled his hands from Roger's tight grip and turned his head away. Roger squatted down to eyelevel with Riggs. "Man, you've got to figure your anger issues out. I told your country cousin Jake that you're a good cop. That's the absolute truth and I firmly stand by that. But you are not doing yourself or our victim any good if you can't keep it together." Roger waited for a response or a reaction or any sign that he was getting through to the stubborn mess sitting in front of him. "That was a lot of rage you just showed us back there. Where the hell did all that come from, anyway? Maybe there's something you want to tell me?"

"Rog, I…."

Roger waited patiently as his partner shook his head from side to side repeatedly, lips pursed and jaw tightly clenched in obdurate silence. "You don't want to talk about it." Roger raised his hands in surrender. "I don't know why I keep asking…just…I'm here, if you ever do, OK?" Before Riggs could reject his help again, Roger gave Riggs a gimlet eyed look. "Stay put. I'm going to straighten things out with Bailey, then you're going to take the rest of the day off - I'll clear it with Avery."

Sometime later, Roger sighed, exasperated, and rubbed his face with both hands. Bailey had just finished explaining that the Special Agent Riggs assaulted was indeed a duly accredited FBI agent, who also happened to be the leader of the FBI's child pornography task force for the West Coast. Burroughs, intending to have Riggs charged with the assault or to file a complaint against him at the very least, had asked for the name of the officer who assaulted him as well as his commanding officer.

"It was weird, Murtaugh - when I gave him Rigg's name and badge number - he looked at me funny, like he knew the name. He was suddenly real interested and repeated it back to me. Then he apologized and asked for Avery's number. It's not just me, that's weird, right?" Roger looked sideways at Bailey. "Whatever it is, it's not good for Riggs." Roger sighed again. It was getting close to midafternoon. His partner was, unbelievably, still sitting in the car where he'd left him. "I'm taking him home for Trish to keep an eye on for now. I'll come back in to the office to square things with Avery. Do me a favor - give the Cap a heads up on the situation?"

Bailey grimaced. "Already done. Cap wants you both in his office, like, yesterday." Seeing Roger's pained expression she added "For what it's worth, I got the distinct impression that only Riggs was going to be suspended…"

Roger shrugged and patted her on the back. "I don't think that's going to matter at this point. Thanks Bailey."

The drive back to the precinct was tense, to put it mildly. The meeting in Avery's office was just plain weird, Roger had no other way to describe it. Avery had them both sit down in those awful stylish modern chairs of his then stared at the ceiling in silence for a good fifteen minutes or so. Just as Roger was starting to feel like he should maybe say something to cut the tension, his former partner, now commanding officer spoke:

"Riggs? Gun and badge on my desk." Roger watched his partner silently rise, pull his weapon from its concealed holster, remove the magazine, and clear the chamber before placing it and his badge on their Captain's desk. Turning on his heel, Riggs was halfway to the door before Avery spoke again.

"Sit. Down. I'm. Not. Finished." While Riggs gingerly settled himself back into the uncomfortable chair, Avery appeared to resume his intense study of the ceiling tiles. Finally, coming to an apparent decision their Captain nodded to himself.

"Riggs, at the suggestion of Special Agent Burroughs, you're on stress leave until further notice." Avery fixed Riggs with what he hoped was a commanding look. "He has declined to press charges or require disciplinary action against you." Before a newly angry Riggs could rise again Avery barked:

"SIT DOWN! You should thank your lucky stars Riggs, you're THIS close…" Avery's thumb and forefinger were almost touching. He took a deep calming breath. "You will report to Trish Murtaugh at home immediately for dinner - on my orders. Dismissed."

As Riggs silently departed, Roger stared curiously at Avery - _what just happened?_


	6. I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...this one took a while to write - I started to get a little bogged down in the melodrama... Anyhoo, I've read a bunch of great fics in this fandom and I hope I haven't inadvertently plagiarized anyone. If I have I apologize. Not too certain where I'm going from here - I had ( and still have) a definite idea of how it's going to end - but I'm not sure now where I'll take you along the way... stay posted and see.

Trish pursed her lips and tapped one manicured nail against the countertop as she went over her recent conversations with both her husband and his boss. Picking up the phone earlier she had been surprised to hear Brooks' voice on the line. By all accounts, the day had been an eventful one, and while Roger's erstwhile partner would never admit it, Trish knew that he valued her friendship and advice. The later call from Roger only served to confirm that this day would likely leave its mark in more ways than one.

Keeping one eye on her youngest daughter busily scribbling toddler masterpieces in the family room, Trish started gathering the ingredients she needed for the succotash she was going to serve to go with Roger's BBQed ribs. She enjoyed cooking: working in the kitchen allowed her to mull things over while accomplishing something useful. She was dicing the onions when she heard the distinctive rumble of a big old engine pulling into the driveway. After a quick glance in Harper's direction, she put down the knife and moved over to the window. Looking out confirmed that Martin's battered tan and orange truck was now parked in their driveway.

_About time too. What's taken him so long? He should have been here thirty minutes ago._ Only his silhouette in the truck's cab was visible through the glare on the windshield. She saw him reach into the glove compartment then tip his head all the way back, resting it on the back of the cab behind him. There was a metallic glint as he raised his hand. She watched as what she could see of him seemed to sag in the seat. Trish tisked and shook her head. _Oh, Martin_. She waited by the window but he showed no immediate signs of leaving the shelter of his vehicle. Trish sighed. _Stop staring at the man. He'll come inside when he's ready._ Returning to the onions on her chopping board, Trish sent up a quick prayer that she wouldn't hear the sound of that engine starting up again and pulling back out of the driveway. She'd made a promise to Brooks she wasn't certain that Martin would let her keep, but she was going to do her best.

She'd finished with the onions, garlic, cilantro, and sweet peppers before she heard the creak and slam of the truck's driver side door followed by the scuff of boots coming up the path. There was a flicker of movement across the sun drenched draperies on the kitchen door. Trish smiled to herself as she watched Martin's shadow smoothing messy hair, tucking in shirttails, and straightening jacket and collar before raising a hand to knock. The door opened immediately after his soft rap and he stepped into her kitchen, mouth twitching into the polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Trish smiled back warmly, brushed her hands clean on her apron, and moved around the counter to greet him.

"Martin! Good to see you!" Trish reached up and pulled him down into a brief hug. Martin bent and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before pulling away and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Hi Trish…look, thanks for the invite…but I really can't stay. I just came by to say hello so…." Whatever else he was going to say was interrupted by the unexpected impact of twenty odd pounds of Harper followed by the tight grip of both her little arms wrapped around his knees in a hug.

"Rah! Rah! Rah!" Harper chanted as she jumped up and down on his left foot, her little hand waving a sheet of paper as high up as she could reach in front of him.

"Uh…hey there little lady…." Martin stood, his petrified face turned towards her for help.

"Nonsense Martin, of course you'll stay for supper." Trish's expression was kind and allowed absolutely no opposition. She smiled fondly at her youngest child bouncing up and down on his instep. "Harper misses you. You can keep an eye on her while I finish up the side dishes. She's really started getting into everything - It would be a help if you could keep her out of mischief while I finish cooking" Trish smiled brightly up at him. She knew that being around small children was probably difficult for him, but oddly enough he always seemed a bit better after spending time around Harper. "She wants to show you her drawing, Martin." Trish tilted her head at her daughter's hand waving the paper in front of Martin's belt buckle.

Martin looked down at the sheet of paper fluttering to and fro at waist level. Shrugging in resignation, he plucked the littlest Murtaugh off his foot, plopped himself down on the floor, and settled her on his outstretched thigh in one smooth motion. "A'right little miss, so what's this you want to show me? Huh? What's a Rah?"

"Martin… " Trish suppressed a giggle as he frowned uncertainly up at her. "Rah is you - it's your name." His dumbfounded look almost undid her composure - she had to turn back to her cooking to avoid erupting into peals of laughter. Once the urge had passed she checked on the pair on the floor. Oblivious to her examination, Martin was sitting on the floor with his long legs splayed out in front of him, her daughter perched on one of them within the protective circle of his arms. Her small dark head of tight curls was partially hidden behind the fringe of his unruly brown ones. Satisfied, she turned back to her stove, the quiet mingling of their voices down below the countertop, his deep and rumbling, hers high and fluting, a soothing background as she worked.

She'd just put the succotash in the oven to keep warm when she noticed the absence of Martin's deep murmur. She came to full attention after Harper's first "Mama?" The note of uncertainty in her daughter's voice was unusual and had her moving to bring them into view before Harper uttered her second more urgent "Mama!". Coming around the end of the kitchen island she could see her daughter peering back at her from under Martin's arm. He was still sitting splayed out on the floor, but his hunched torso shook silently as he curled around Harper, hugging her close to his chest.

"It's okay Baby" Trish knelt on the floor n the floor next to RMartinand gently extricated her daughter from his close embrace.

"Mama…wet." Harper reached up under the fringe of hair and patted Martin's cheek. Holding her hand, palm up to her mother she repeated "Wet."

"Oh Baby…" Trish took the little palm in her larger one and kissed her daughter on her forehead while simultaneously drying her hand with her own. "It's just tears, Honey. Why don't you go and make another nice drawing for him, OK?" She watched as her small one nodded at her solemnly before trotting off back to her crayons and paper in the family room.

Martin hadn't reacted when she gently pulled his arms open to release Harper - he seemed completely unaware of anything or anyone outside himself. Uncertain if or how he would react to her touch, Trish hesitated before reaching across his chest and gathering him in. As she tucked him into the crook of her arm, he seemed to melt into her. All she could do for him was hold him until the storm passed. As she waited resting her head on the back of his shoulder, she rocked him gently, rubbing his back all the while with her free hand. She could feel the sharp ridges of his shoulder blades, his backbone, and his ribs through the heavy canvas of the jacket he almost never took off. He smelled like his musty old trailer, the faint sour notes of sweat and booze overlaid by the more pungent notes of seaweed and tobacco. With her ear pressed against him, she listened to the hitching breaths that jerked his too-thin frame. Each one the susurrus of a seashell held against her ear - the rush of distant waves from his convoluted depths marking time as she held him close. _Except this isn't an empty shell I'm holding_. Trish closed her eyes briefly, hoping that she would know the right thing to do or say when he became aware of the world around him once again. _Gentle and firm_ \- she decided - _and no drama_ \- Martin seemed to respond to that best - calm and steady in his case, would, she hoped, be what he needed and would respond to.

Harper had finished another drawing before she felt him stiffen as his awareness returned. Her hand rubbing his back stilled as she felt him grip her forearm and begin to push her away. She gave him a quick hug before releasing him. He rose shakily off the floor, clearing his throat and sniffling several times as he swiped the grimy sleeve of his jacket roughly over his face.

"I'm sorry, Trish…I should…" His voice cracked on her name as he avoided her gaze.

Trish held her hands up to him. "Help me up off the floor please, Martin. My legs have fallen asleep."

Martin's startled "Oh!" brought a small smile to her lips as he grasped her hands in his and pulled her upright. He held her steady until the blood found its way back into her legs and the pins and needles subsided. She patted his arm and smiled softly at him, nodding her thanks as he released his grip.

"I...uh…I should get going…" The words came out in a wobbly rush - the signs of imminent flight were obvious - he would bolt if she did the wrong thing.

Trish knew that if she was going to succeed in getting him to stay, even just for dinner, she was going to have to take control. "Martin." The command in her voice was unmistakable. She took both his hands in hers and backed him into the closest seat at her kitchen counter. "Sit down." She raised her eyebrows. 'Keep an eye on Harper, while I get you something for your head…It'll only take a minute, then you can go, if that's what you want." She waited for his slow nod and subdued "Yes ma'am" before releasing his hands and pushing the box of tissues within easy reach. She retreated to the bathroom around the corner to give him some space and pulled two clean washcloths from a small stack on top of the dryer in the adjoining laundry room. She ran the cold water a few minutes before soaking them under the tap. The running water masked all but the most of the vigorous snuffling and snorting coming from the kitchen. She grabbed a bottle of Advil from the medicine cabinet before wringing out the cloths and marching back to where she'd perched him on the chair. Folding one cloth into an oblong, she made him hold it pressed high on the back of his neck. The other she applied to his face, the heels of her hands pressing one half gently into his eye sockets while her fingers smoothed the other half of the cool cloth against his forehead.

The cold felt so good against the throbbing in his head that for a few blissful moments he completely forgot the burning mortification flushing his skin with heat. Martin sighed and leaned into her hands, the combination of cold and pressure making the ache just behind his eyeballs seem to recede to a less sensitive spot midway between the faint pixelated patterns on the insides of his eyelids and the cold patch at the base of his skull. As the Rorschach blots in his vision formed and reformed, his breathing deepened. Martin couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way. The cloth and Trish's hands against his face smelled fresh and herbal like…

_…the sweetgrass soap his mother had used and the coolness on his face returned to him the memory of the sound of her voice, the feeling of her hand smoothing his thick unruly hair, and a brief sensation of contented security he had felt in her arms with her laughing face looming over him, the sunlight streaming through the long wings of her hair…_

Martin gasped and jerked away from Trish's hands.

"What is it Martin? Did I hurt you?" Trish's worried voice brought him abruptly back to the present. He shook his head and pursed his lips tightly before speaking softly.

"Momma used to do that for me…with the cloths, I mean." He held the damp pad from the back of his neck up between them for an instant before dropping both it and his hands in his lap. "I'd forgotten." Martin paused and swallowed convulsively. "I remembered that just now…I don't…have much from before she got sick." He hunched his shoulders up, kneading the damp wad of terry around with his fingers. "She had cancer and the treatments weren't working…and…she would have died from the cancer anyway…" Martin trailed off with a pained grimace.

Trish inhaled sharply then slowly nodded her understanding. "How old were you when that happened Martin?"

Martin tilted his head back before taking a long shaky breath and expelling it. "Twelve…I was twelve." Another breath and he was far away again, lost in his head. Trish stood watching him patiently as sudden tears shone briefly, trembling crystals on the tips of his lashes before being blinked away. _Just a child…if he witnessed that…no small wonder he doesn't remember much else about her…._ She stilled his working fingers and collected the crumpled washcloth from his grip, placing it with the one she was holding on the counter beside them.

"I'm not expecting Roger for another half hour or so. RJ and Riana are out tonight so It's just the three of us and Harper. It'll be a quiet supper Martin." Raised eyebrows turned her last statement into a promise. She watched him hesitate, his head swiveling to look over his shoulder and out the window over to his truck parked in the driveway then at Harper colouring in the family room. Trish pulled him to his feet and nodded with her chin towards the bathroom with an encouraging smile. "There are fresh towels for you if you want to clean up before dinner?" It wasn't quite a question. He looked down at his feet before answering her.

"I guess…I could use a shower…" He glanced up at her briefly and winced a little. Trish handed him the bottle of Advil she'd grabbed earlier. "Take one and put the rest back in the cabinet. You know where everything is."

Trish checked on her daughter then finished getting the rest of the supper ready while she waited to hear the sound of the shower running. She'd had time to plan an intervention between her conversations with Brooks and her husband and Martin's arrival. She knew what she was going to do if the opportunity presented itself, which it now had. With the shower running, Trish crept silently over to the adjacent laundry room and listened carefully. Testing the connecting door to the bathroom, she found it unlocked. She cracked it open and carefully peered around it: Martin was in the shower, frosted glass shielding him from view, his clothes in a heap just inside the door on top of his discarded boots. Trish silently snagged the pile of dirty clothes and closed the door. The ninja approach was really the only way Martin would let her take care of him a little. _From what I've observed so far this evening Martin, you really need some TLC_. She quickly checked and emptied the contents of his pockets on top of the dryer before dumping the garments in the waiting machine, already loaded with soap and water, and turning it on. She sighed in resignation as she arranged a scrunched wad of dollar bills, a folding army knife, his cellphone, wallet, and belt with its empty holster on top of the dryer along with the usual twists of paper, loose change, and bits of effluvia found in men's pockets whose significance she had learned a long time ago not to underestimate. The only thing she tossed out were his shorts. Aside from very obviously having been worn inside and inside-out too long, the waistband had reached that state where it could be considered elastic in name only. _Men…_ Trish roller her eyes as she pulled a clear plastic storage box from the shelf above the appliances and quickly checked that the contents were in order.  After the incident with the fence and his trailer, she had gone shopping and assembled this box for him - just in case. Satisfied that she'd done all she could for the time being, Trish left the box on the dryer with the contents of Martin's pockets carefully arranged next to it.

**************************************************

He couldn't figure out how he'd ended up in the Murtaughs' downstairs bathroom shucking his clothes off onto the floor. He felt drained, so empty and hollow that it seemed a miracle he didn't crumble apart again. Stepping under the jet of hot water he thought gingerly back to what had happened on the kitchen floor. He could hear Cahill's voice in his head asking him: "Martin, why do you think you reacted that way?" _How the hell should I know, Maureen, you're the one with all the answers._ He'd been prompting Harper with questions about her picture. She'd drawn two potato shaped people with long stick arms and short stick legs. One little one and one big one standing side by side under a big green swirl that she insisted was the sun shining. The little one had been drawn with a fuzz of dark curls adorning its little miss potato head and was clearly a self portrait, so he'd teased her a little with his questions, pretending he couldn't figure out who it was. His silly guesses had her giggling at everything he said until she'd finally pointed emphatically at the smaller stick figure. "No Rah! Dissis Harper an dats Rah…see?" Her hand had reached up to pat his mustache, then pointed back to the squiggly smudge that represented the larger figure's mouth. "TASHE!, dats you." Harper's assertion had left Martin suddenly facing the gaping maw of the abyss inside him while her piping voice faded into the background. For a long while he was lost in it, the hollow burning ache in his chest the only sign that he still existed somewhere. Turning back from the emptiness inside to find himself in such a vulnerable position had almost been worse but for Trish's solid presence. _Oh God_. Martin was acutely aware that no one really died of embarrassment, but he'd still desperately wanted to sink through the floor and disappear. Somehow Trish had managed things in a way that made him feel sort of alright with what had happened. Her calm, and commanding attitude had been reassuring. So long as he followed orders he knew that things would be OK. Trish's firm, no nonsense presence left no room for ambiguity or doubt. _Huh. So THAT's how I ended up in this shower…_

_Damn, Trish…you'd have made one hell of a fine CO_.

Accepting the inevitable, Martin lathered up and reached for the shampoo bottle. _Might as well do the job properly while I'm at it._ At his trailer he just used the same bar of soap to wash his hair as he used to wash the rest of him and do his laundry. He squinted at the bottle in his hand: the label read "Fortifying+ for Men with Ginseng". Martin lifted the cap and sniffed before squeezing a dollop of green slime into the palm of his hand and sniffing again. _Not bad…_ He had definite ideas about scented toiletries: it was better to smell like a little honest dirt then to smell like the perfume aisle at Dillard's being one of them.

He'd just finished toweling off when he noticed his boots collapsed by the door, naked and exposed without their camo of discarded clothes. A quick check revealed what he already suspected: his faithful boots were still where he'd left them, but everything else was AWOL. _No way! She didn't…_ Martin stared at the laundry room door and measured the distance from it to his boots. His boots weren't exactly where he'd left them; they had shifted into the room by about six inches. Suddenly shy, he wrapped the large fluffy blue towel tightly around his waist and tucked it in before venturing out through the laundry room and poking his head around the kitchen doorway.

"Trish?" His follow-up question died unuttered as Trish's voice interrupted him.

"Your things are in the wash Martin." Trish appeared from the direction of the dining room, holding a stack of cloth napkins. "There are some clothes that should fit you in a storage box on top of the dryer." She smiled at him before popping back into the dining room.

_She did!_ Martin snorted to himself as he closed the laundry room door with a snap and locked it for good measure. _That's going too far, Trish._ The washer's cycle was done, so he lifted the lid and peered in at his clothes. His first overriding thought was to put his wet things on just as they were and march out of there, disregarding the tiny reasonable voice in his head that sounded a lot like Cahill saying: "Everything is a choice, Martin. You can choose to be stubborn and angry, or you can choose to accept that people care about you." He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths before opening them again and eyeballing the plastic container on top of the dryer. Arranged neatly beside the box were the odds and ends from his pockets as well as his other non-washables. Inhaling deeply he held the breath for a moment before blowing it back out softly and slowly pulling the box closer to him with one hand. Removing the lid, he examined the contents. He'd been expecting to find a spare set of LAPD sweats or things that looked like hand-me-downs of Roger's, likely too big for him and uncomfortably stylish. Instead he found three western shirts, two plain, one plaid, three pairs of Levi's that were indistinguishable from his own, grey men's cotton sport socks, some Henleys and t-shirts in assorted colours, and a half dozen plain cotton shorts, also in assorted plaids and solids. There were more clothes in that box than he had at his trailer, each item clearly new and carefully chosen with him in mind. He picked up one of the shirts from the top of the stack in the box and shook it out. The tags had been removed and the shirt laundered, eliminating the just out of the packaging creases and softening the fabric into comfort. It was overwhelming. Martin carefully placed the shirt back in the box and rubbed his face with both hands trying to keep the upwelling feelings at bay. His fingers rasping against his stubbled cheeks had him delving suddenly back into the box to pull out a plain khaki zippered canvas washbag. Opening it, he sorted through the contents: scissors, comb, razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and toothpaste all presented themselves to his inspection. Knuckling back tears, he returned everything to the pouch and took it with him back to the bathroom.

***************************************

Standing at the kitchen island tossing the salad, Trish witnessed the awkward moment when Martin emerged from the sanctuary of the bathroom, neatly dressed and freshly shaved, only to come face to face with Roger carrying a platter of ribs from the kitchen to the dining room. "I see Trish has been taking good care of you!" Roger chortled as he took in his partner's greatly improved appearance, oblivious to the look of sudden alarm on the other man's face. At Martin's wide-eyed glance she shook her head briefly. "Roger!" She raised an eyebrow at her husband as he turned towards her questioningly. "Can you finish bringing in the food, please? I need to put Harper to bed. Martin? She's been waiting to say goodnight to you in the family room." Martin was showing renewed signs of nerves so she went over and tucked her arm into his. She looked up at him: "Come see…it's adorable." She tugged him gently along with her through the doorway to peer at Harper asleep on the family room couch. She was lying on her back with her knees tucked up clutching another drawing to her chest with both hands…and snoring like a trooper. Trish watched Martin's tentative expression soften into bemusement as he watched the gentle rise and fall of her small chest and listened to her incongruously loud snoring.

"Does Roger know she's his?" Startled, Trish looked up at Martin to see a twinkle in his brown eyes and shy smile at his joke. She clapped a hand to her mouth, smothering her laughter to avoid waking Harper. "Martin Riggs!" she whispered, punching him lightly in the upper arm. "The picture is for you." Trish released his arm and nodded in her daughter's direction. Uncertain, Martin approached the couch with its sleeping beauty and pantomimed picking the little girl up. At Trish's encouraging nod, he carefully slipped the drawing from Harper's slumbering grip and placed it gently on the end table before gathering her into his arms. Trish silently urged him to follow her up the stairs with the warm sleeping weight of her daughter cradled carefully against his chest.

Martin had helped settle her in bed and fetched the stuffed bunny from the rocking chair in the corner while Trish tucked the blanket around the sleeping form. Surprising her, he had leaned over and tucked the soft toy into the crook of Harper's arm, one finger lingering caressingly on the tightly curled fist, before straightening up and quietly slipping out of the room. Coming down the stairs a few minutes later she found him standing in the family room holding Harper's drawing in his hands. Unaware of being observed, he carefully folded the paper into quarters and slipped it into the breast pocket of his new shirt, patting the crinkling paper into place before snapping the flap carefully closed.

As promised, dinner was a quiet affair. While Martin was in the shower, Trish had read Roger the riot act. Her husband had a need to get to the bottom of things as quickly as possible: It made him a great cop, but he wasn't always so perceptive when it came to how his digging affected others. "Roger, don't push him too hard to talk, just give him space to sort through things at his own speed." Roger had rolled his eyes at her and squeezed his hands together before answering. "The man bottles everything up, Trish. It's not healthy - just look at what happened today!" Roger mimed _Kaboom!_ between them with his hands. "You should have seen him…he was…I couldn't…" Roger huffed in frustration. "He scared me Trish… I'm afraid sometimes that he'll do something that he…that we can't come back from." Trish understood her husband's worry but she didn't share it. She had faith that Martin had made it past the extreme self destruction of the previous year when he went after the cartel responsible for the murder of his wife. Although she couldn't quite put her finger on it, this was something else. She'd sighed up at her husband and pulled him into a fierce hug. "It will be alright, Roger, trust me. Now go and put those ribs on the BBQ or there won't be any dinner tonight." Trish punctuated her last remark with a strategic light squeeze that elicited an immediate reaction from her husband.

At the dinner table, she and Roger kept up an innocuous conversation about her day, working together to make sure that Martin actually ate something. He'd always eaten everything put in front of him at their table, unsophisticated palate or not, like someone who'd never really had enough to eat growing up. Tonight was different - after the first few ribs, eaten with  a pretense of gusto, he'd toyed with the rest of his food. Roger's and her pretend argument about dietary restrictions was successful in getting Martin to eat a few more of the delicious ribs, but despite their playacting the platter was still more than half full. Along with the succotash and salad, she'd served the roasted potatoes with sour cream she knew he liked, Roger making a small not quite pretend fuss that he wasn't allowed to have any. The argumentative and competitive nature of Roger's and Martin's relationship ensured that some of those potatoes ended up being consumed by their intended recipient. Disregarding Roger's mouthed "You're enabling an alcoholic" She hadn't objected to the beers Martin had plucked out of the fridge and plonked almost defiantly on the table next to his plate. The result of their concerted efforts was a somnolent Martin: having eaten more at one sitting than he likely had in a week, combined with the events of the day, Martin's head tilted dangerously close to the table. "Roger. I think it's time." Trish nodded with her chin at her husband's dozing partner. Roger's eyebrows waggled at her. "You know he won't listen to me, it'll have to be you. I'll clear the plates." Trish nodded. "Martin?" She rose from her seat and moved around the table to stand at Martin's elbow. "Martin honey." He roused at the sound of her voice next to him and peered blearily up at her. "You're tired. Why don't you go upstairs and lie down in the spare bedroom?" Her hand at his elbow urged him gently to stand. His brown eyes focused on her for a moment before straying to the kitchen where Roger was cleaning plates into the trash disposal before rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher. "I'm not drunk." Trish gripped his shoulder. "I know." She resisted the urge to tuck the long stray strands of hair back behind his ear. "You're asleep in your plate Martin." She gave him a forceful look. "Upstairs. Bed. Now." Each command was gently spoken, but the steel underlying the words was unmistakable nonetheless. Trish waited as Martin stared blindly at her for a long while, deciding how to react. Nodding to himself, he rose and accepted her hand at his elbow. "Lead the way."

He hadn't fussed when she directed him to the freshly made up bed in the spare bedroom, merely tumbling fully dressed on top of the comforter. She'd pulled off his boots with some difficulty and placed them at the foot of the bed. Trying to get him to strip down and get under the covers was something else entirely. Just as Trish was getting ready to take matters into her own hands, Roger appeared with Martin's disreputable, but freshly washed and dried jacket. Shooting his wife a quelling look, he covered his partner's head and shoulders with the jacket. Speaking softly, he watched Martin loosen his belt before wishing him a good night and retreating to the doorway, his concerned wife in tow. "He always sleeps that way…in his clothes, I mean." Roger whispered. Shrugging at his wife's surprised expression. "Leave the light on in the hall and the door ajar - he…doesn't like it dark." Trish paused in the doorway, lips pursed, watching Martin curled up under the shelter of his jacket fully dressed. He lay across the bed with his back to the headboard and facing the door, arms curled almost protectively around his head, one hand loosely grasping one of the sleeves. It was odd, almost as if he didn't feel safe in their guest bedroom - Trish didn't want to think about what might have happened in his past to cause that level of wariness. _He's afraid of the dark - and other things. Oh Martin._ Her heart ached for him. Thinking him asleep, Trish spoke: "Sleep Martin. You're safe here with us." As she reached for the doorknob, his voice from the bed startled her. "I know." She looked back to see the shine of one eye from beneath the deeper shadows under his jacket as he spoke again. "Thanks Trish…for everything." He sighed once deeply and the glitter was extinguished.

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_Martin knew it was a dream. Only his dreams possessed such an otherworldly clarity: every edge bright and sharp as a freshly honed blade, each instant seeming to last an age before sliding to the next like the frames of a stuttering film. In the deafening silence, he watched as dust motes drifted lazily in a sunbeam slashing down across a battered chest of drawers that was all he could see. His view was severely limited though somehow he knew that there was a worn flowered rug on the scrubbed pine boards of the room just as he knew that the bed was white painted wrought iron with brass knobs and that the mattress frame creaked like an unoiled gate swinging in the wind when you shifted. He also knew that the room had a high ceiling and that the walls were papered in faded yellow rosebuds. Despite the knowing, everything was sepia toned as if he truly was watching an old film. There was no sound, no sensation, no breath, only the chest with one drawer slightly open, one of the two drawer pulls dangling loose having come adrift from mishandling by countless foster children over the years. He couldn't get any air. He couldn't move. He was fixed in the moment. He knew his heart was pounding ever harder in fear though he couldn't feel it. He watched as the rhythmic shifting of the chest of drawers, a trick of the perspective making it appear as if they were advancing and retreating on him over and over in an oddly disturbing square dance, stoked his unease. His initial unease turned to fear, then finally to mounting terror with each movement of the dance when he realized what was happening. With understanding, sound and sensation returned. Though he could feel his throat tearing with the force of them, his screams were inaudible. He was pinned by an oppressive weight, unable to move or fight back, utterly helpless and unable to make a sound no matter the burning pain and his silent screaming._

****************************************************************************************

"Martin! Wake up!" Trish grabbed Martin's shoulder and shook hard. "Wake up!" His hoarse screams had woken them all at 2am. "You're dreaming! Wake up!" Trish spoke firmly into his ear as the rest of the assembled Murtaughs watched from the doorway. The screams suddenly cut off as he woke with a start, backpedaling hard into the headboard where he stopped, chest heaving and eyes staring. Keeping her attention fixed on Martin, Trish waved one hand behind her. "Go back to bed. Everybody." Roger would herd everyone back to bed, she knew. Martin was awake, but still lost in the dream. She reached for his hand, but before should could grasp it he jerked away from her touch, the look he gave her still wild and full of fear. Trish spoke softly but firmly. "Martin, it was a dream. You're safe. Look at me - you're OK." Maintaining eye contact with him she tried again. Grasping his trembling hand she clasped it and chafed it in her own. He shuddered and slowly peeled away from the headboard, taking a deep trembling breath. He was still breathing hard and shaking as she guided him over to the edge of the bed where she sat him next to her, elbows on knees with his head between his hands. As she began to rub his back, Roger appeared in the doorway holding a glass of water. Sitting down on his partner's other side he silently offered him the glass while laying a supportive arm around his shoulders. Roger had to steady the glass as his partner drank haltingly, a few drops spilling over the rim and onto his hand.

"Better?" Roger's concern turned to sudden alarm as Martin heaved. Snagging the wastebasket from the other end of the bed he managed to get it in place just as another heave brought up the water, and other less recent contents of Martin's stomach. Roger looked over at his wife as she made a small sound of distress. He could see her silently willing Martin to keep down what little nourishment remained from dinner. It was all for nothing as an even greater spasm brought up the rest followed by dry heaves that left Martin gasping and hawking into the wastebasket.

Trish left the room and fetched a damp cloth. Kneeling in front of him she scanned what should could see of his face. "Any more Martin?" at his slow headshake she reached up and gently wiped his chin and mouth. Reaching for the glass proffered by Roger she held it to Martin's lips. "Rinse and spit" Martin did as she asked, swishing the tepid water around in his mouth before spitting the sour mouthful into the container between his knees. Martin coughed and cleared his throat before spitting again and mumbling: "Sorry for waking you all like that."

Trish tisked as she wiped clean the strands of his hair that had hadn't escaped all the upheavals before tucking them back behind his ears. "There's nothing to apologize for. Can you manage a few swallows of water?" Martin nodded, his hands had stopped shaking, so she gave him the glass. He sipped gingerly and swallowed several times before handing the glass back to her. Roger intercepted the gesture and took it from him. "That was one hell of a nightmare…you…" Roger slowed into awkward silence at Trish's intense glare and rephrased "probably don't want to talk about it…think you can get back to sleep?" Martin stared darkly back at Roger, the answer clearly being "no".

"Sure Rog." he turned to Trish on his other side. "Thank you Trish…I…"

Trish interrupted him with an upraised index finger requesting silence. "Thank you Roger. I'll join you in a minute." She shot her husband a pointed look that had him shuffling off with a chorus of "Good night, sleep tight, don't let the bed bugs bite" as he exited the room. Trish fixed Martin with a direct look and forced him to hold her gaze. "It's past three in the morning. Martin, honey…you’re FAMILY…I can't let you take off into the night, I just can't." Trish shushed him as he started to protest. "You're a grown man and I know it's none of my business. BUT." She waggled an impeccably manicured finger in front of his nose. "I'd be worried about you." She sighed. "Try to get back to sleep. Hmm?" He stared at her, his brown eyes impenetrable before finally dropping his gaze to the floor and mumbling "Yes ma'am" under his breath. She watched as he crawled back to the center of the queen sized bed and curled up again under his jacket. "Would you like me to stay a while? Trish asked softly. She could tell that his sudden docility was a bit of an act, and was hoping to hedge her bets a little. He didn't bite. "I'll be fine - you go and get some rest now. Goodnight." On that final note she rose from the edge of the bed and left, pulling the door partly shut behind her.

The next morning she and Roger were unsurprised to find the spare room empty and his truck gone from their driveway.


	7. Speaking Confidentially

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cahill puts some sundry facts together and arrives at a disturbing conclusion about Riggs, which subsequently confirmed, must be revealed to Avery

Maureen was having a bad day. She'd thought yesterday had been bad, but boy oh boy was she mistaken. Today was worse than bad, it was…I don't know what this is, it's…impossible. An impossible situation. Somehow defining it as impossible made her stop and reconsider the situation more rationally. It's difficult - but not impossible. That was better - difficult she could deal with. It would take some thought and patience, but it could be handled. One step at a time. Maureen sat down in her armchair facing the windows and grabbed her notepad and pen. She always had an easier time working things out on paper, doodles and all.

She'd thought back to the text messages that were the beginning of all this. Unbelievably it had taken less than 24 hours after her report to receive a callback about them from no less than the FBI Special Agent in charge of the child pornography taskforce for the west coast. That never happened. She'd been stunned when the Special Agent in question had shown up at her office late yesterday afternoon. Even more stunning was his appearance - he had been sporting some very painful looking fresh facial bruising along with a split lip and a not very pleasant expression.

"Dr. Cahill? Special Agent Burroughs - FBI" we spoke on the 'phone?"

She'd offered him a seat and with a raised eyebrow asked how she could assist him. She was surprised when he didn't seem to want to talk about the text messages or the pictures she'd received and reported. Instead he'd tried pumping her for information on Riggs. Very detailed and confidential information that he had no right to and that she wouldn't have given him in any case, even had she found him sympathetic, which she did not. The resulting conversation had been unpleasant, though civil. Just as Special Agent Burroughs was leaving she had stopped him with a question. Not expecting an answer she had asked: "Why all this interest in one of my patients? Why Riggs?"

Burroughs had turned back from her door before answering:

"Besides this?" He indicated his mangled face. At her shocked look, he sighed and shrugged - the reaction suddenly making him seem a lot more likeable. "You know who sent you those text messages, right?"

She'd shaken her head at him, perplexed.

"Nathan Riggs, from prison in Amarillo." Special Agent Burroughs had glared meaningfully at her before turning on his heel and departing the way he'd come leaving her staring after him in confusion.

Nathan Riggs. Apart from dropping that bomb on her, there was absolutely nothing useful in either the phone call or the in person conversation she'd had with the agent to indicate how the messages, pictures, the agent, and Riggs were meant to be tied together. Nathan Riggs. Maureen circled the name several times on her note pad, thinking back to those terse three sentences. The first and the last were insignificant, mere politeness - if you could call them that considering the context. It was the second that was the important one. "Thought you should know" - know what? What do you think I should know, and more importantly, why? What're you after? From what Martin had finally started telling her about his father, she doubted his intentions. Sending those text messages had seemed…passive aggressive? No…that wasn't right… more…manipulative. Nathan Riggs was a manipulator, and he was manipulating his son's life from prison - if the killing of Chuck Norris was anything to go by. Which of course it is. Added to that were the pictures. What were they for? To get her attention? If so, they certainly had done the job. She'd hesitated a long while before making up her mind. Don't let yourself get taken in by him, Maureen was her last thought before sending a reply to the last message: "Why?"

It wasn't until this morning that the reply had come. She'd just been stepping out of the shower when she heard the loud ping of the arriving message. Wrapping the towel around her she'd rushed back to her bedside table to pick up her 'phone.

"Thought you wanted to help him?" was the response to her reply. She hesitated, thinking.

"Yes, I do. Is this Nathan Riggs?" She waited.

"You ARE a smart one." She was nonplussed. What did he mean? Yes? She replied:

"What do you mean?" she texted. The reply was immediate and final.

"Lady, if you can't figure it out, there ain't no hope for my boy. Look at those pictures."

Look at those pictures. My boy… Well she HAD looked at them, briefly, shockingly, and then had let procedure take over. Figure it out? What was in those pictures that could possibly have to do with Riggs? Maureen had steeled herself once she was in her office and gotten out her laptop to pull up her report with the attached pictures from the text messages. She had used Photoshop to open the pictures and forced herself to really look at them this time. The three images she'd been sent appeared to follow each other like stills taken from a movie. If she scanned from the first to the last, she caught a sickening sense of movement from the grainy images. She'd had to close her eyes for a moment, before going back to the pictures and refocusing her attention to the background and the décor. They showed a bedroom, the nondescript furnishings banal in their anonymity. There was nothing there to identify a location. Neither could either of the two figures be identified even had the images been of sufficient clarity. They both had their heads turned away from the lens. Maureen forced herself to be clinical in her examination of the two figures. The man was just a blurry pale figure with his head turned away, his identity protected by the photographer or cameraman's attention being fixed on the figure of the boy. The focus was definitively the boy, here the image though grainy was clear enough for her to make out a few details. In the first picture, the boy's head was turned away from the camera, only the dark curls on the back of his neck were visible. The hair was thick and dark. Brown? The next two images showed a little more as they captured his head turning towards the lens. In the second picture she could clearly see the long shape of an ear slanted slightly towards the back of the boy's head. The third showed a bit of his profile, his straining neck and prominent Adam's apple evident though she couldn't see the shape of his nose or his eyes. Pubescent. Her mind registered the fact automatically. She scanned what she could see of the rest of him. He was thin, though a certain gangly muscularity and a deeper shadow under where his arm met his torso had her confirming analytically what she already knew by instinct. Adolescent boy, 12 to 15 years old. Could this be related to one of Riggs' cases? She let the thought ferment a little. Maybe this is related to yesterday's body? Could it be Tim Rodriguez in the pictures? She looked again. No, it wasn't possible. Tim Rodriguez had been Hispanic with a naturally bronzed skin tone. The boy in these pictures, though sporting a deep bronze on his arms and the back of his neck, displayed alabaster white skin everywhere that hadn't been touched by his farmer's tan. Definitely not Tim Rodriguez, though the age and the hair were similar. The thought had her wondering. Is there a way to tell how old these pictures are? As she scanned the images again looking for anything that could help date them she couldn't help going back to the straining lines of the boy's body, so helplessly pinned under the weight of the anonymous older man. The tension in his forearm as his fist twisted in the bedding and the strain in his neck were clear to see. Of course they are…that's the whole point… Maureen had had to close the laptop in disgust. The lines of his body, the way he twisted his head….Lines! She pulled the laptop open again and peered at the bottom of the first picture. There! Of course. She zoomed in and checked the other two images just to make certain. At the bottom of each picture, about 1/4 inch from the bottom edge were a series of faint blurry lines - like you used to get when you paused a video tape. They were stills from a VHS tape! Good chance the pictures were at least twenty years old if that was the case.

Maureen brought her attention back from rehashing the last several hours and looked at the pad of paper on her knees. While she was thinking she had doodled and scribbled. Below the heavily circled "Nathan Riggs" she had jotted down "Help Martin", "not Tim", "20 yrs", and done a reasonably good drawing of a VHS tape along with several of an ear with varying degrees of success. From "Nathan Riggs" to "Help Martin" she had drawn an arrow with the words "wants me to know so I can" marching along the top of it. Really? That what you want, Daddy Riggs? Think you could have been a little more cryptic? Maybe he wasn't being cryptic, maybe he thought the answer was obvious…Maureen's heart skipped a beat. No. Not that obvious, it couldn't be. She did some rapid math in her head then got up and pulled a file from her cabinet to make sure. Her math was correct. She collapsed back into her chair and rubbed her temples vigorously. Spreading the file out on the table in front of her she started to search. It should be in here somewhere… She flipped the pages rapidly backwards working her way progressively to earlier documents. Finally she found what she was looking for almost at the bottom of the stack. The pictures taken by child services to help in placing a child with a foster family were generally posed portraits like school photos, but unusually in this case there were are few candid shots taken on the steps of a porch. She flipped open the laptop again and displayed the third picture, zooming in on the relevant detail. She surveyed the pictures from the file. Selecting one, she placed it on the table in front of the computer. Digging back through the file, she found another more recent photo that had what she needed in it and placed it next to the other one on the table.

The ears are the same. Barring injuries, a person's ears didn't change as they aged, merely getting larger as the cartilage continued to grow with the passage of years. The pattern of each ear's helix, scapha, pinna, and other whorls and curves were unique and did not change over time. It's the same person. As she looked more closely she could identify other similarities between the two pictures from the file and the one displayed on her laptop. There was a mark on what she could see of the boy's left cheek in the laptop picture that she had originally though was an artifact from the grainy quality of the image. She could see know that it was a mole. The same mole appeared in the same place on the two pictures from her file. Picking up the older of the two from the table she examined it closely. It showed a gangly adolescent boy sitting on the bottom step of a porch, his head turned up and to the right, neck stretched to look at an adolescent girl standing on the top step above him with her long dark hair in two braids dangling down towards his hidden face as she leaned over him. His straining neck showed the same prominent Adam's apple and long lines as those of the boy in the laptop picture. Along with the mole on his left cheek and his ear, his hair was the same, the curls against his neck showing the same cowlick as in the still from the video. Maureen pulled a third more formal picture from her file showing the same boy facing the camera. Thick dark wavy hair framed high cheekbones and a long upper lip in a thin beardless face. The chin was still rounded by childhood but showed signs of the stubborn squareness to come. The eyes stared back at the camera displaying the beginnings of that intensely guarded expression that was as familiar to her as she now realized the straining twist of his head had been in the stills from the video. She had seen him twist his head in exactly that way here on her couch. She picked up the most recent picture from her file that she had used for comparison. A standard LAPD headshot, it showed the same face, but older, showing more wear and tear, the softer bones of adolescence hardened into the much more guarded man he had become. Your evil bastard of a father sent me the actual pictures of a trauma you experienced over twenty years ago and wants me to use them to help you? I was right the first time: this is impossible. The Martin Riggs in the photograph she held stared back at her, revealing nothing.

********************************

It was getting late and Brooks was still sitting lost in thought at his desk. He knew he should be packing it in for the day and setting off for bed and Todd, but he didn't like bringing work home with him. Yesterday's and today's baggage was proving very tenacious and couldn't be shaken off so easily. He didn't have to look over at the bullpen to know that it was empty, the normal sounds of late evening occupancy were missing: no rustling of papers, no tapping pens, not even the occasional snort as someone woke from a doze. Missing too was the troubled detective who was usually the sole source of those small sounds of life at this late hour. Since he'd dismissed Riggs from his office, Brooks hadn't heard a peep out of his wayward lunatic, other than the confirmation from Roger that he had made an appearance for dinner with Trish at their house as ordered. It was starting to worry him more than was usual. The situation was fraught and he didn't know what to do about it, so he sat and thought hoping that the answer would emerge from the holes in the ceiling tiles, or through some other quasi magical agency. Maybe from the bottom of my scotch bottle since it's Riggs… He sighed and rolled his eyes to the drawer that held his emergency bottle. It was tempting, but no, not tonight. He mentally closed the door on that route and finally chose another one - it had always been the only option, but he had hesitated in employing it. He reached over and picked up the receiver of his desk phone intending to place the call right then and there before remembering the lateness of the hour. I suppose it can wait until morning….Just as he was about to change his mind and call anyway, he heard the sound of the elevator doors opening followed by the tap tap tap of heels on the polished bullpen floor. Standing and peering through the glass walls of his office he made his way over to the door and pulled it open.

"Mo? I was just going to call you. I need to talk to you." Brooks stepped aside so that Maureen could move past him to sit down on one the couches in the informal meeting area of his office.

"Funny you should say that, I was just going to say the same thing." Maureen smiled back at Avery. "Riggs?"

Brooks leaned one beautifully suited buttock on the edge of his desk. "Riggs." he confirmed. "You first."

He had listened with careful attention to everything Maureen said as she showed him the original text messages and pictures along with her report and the conclusions she'd drawn from her comparison of the various photographs in Riggs' files and those that she had received. He had asked occasional questions as she recounted what she had put together, but had fallen silent once she was finished. The silence stretched for a long while before it was interrupted by Maureen's almost inaudible gasp. As he looked up and caught her level gaze she spoke:

"You already knew, didn't you?"

Brooks sighed and nodded. Reaching over the desk he leaned around and pulled open the whisky drawer, extracting the bottle and a jewel case containing a disk. He handed her the case and placed two glasses on the desk next to him. "Drink?" At her hesitant look he said. "Trust me, you're going to need it." While he poured two fingers into each glass, she looked down at the case in her hand. It was labelled with an FBI coded case file number and the legend "VCTM UNK (M)" crossed out and replaced with "RIGGS, M (M)".

"Is this…Where did you get it!?" Maureen carefully set the jewel case with the DVD it contained on the glass table next to her. "Did you…watch it?" At her incredulous tone, Brooks rose from his perch on the desk and handed her one of the glasses before moving over to the window and gazing out over the LA skyline.

"Yes, it is. Agent Burroughs gave it to me…" Avery blinked repeatedly before continuing "…and yes, God help me, I watched it." He paused again and swallowed before continuing thickly:"…I took his badge and his gun and chewed him out over his assaulting Burroughs at the Tim Rodriguez crime scene, and then…there are hours of it, Mo….I watched it all…I…" Avery shook his head ruefully and sipped his scotch. He raised his hand before she could rise from her seat, warding her off: "I'll be fine, sit." Avery downed the rest of his drink and gently placed the empty glass on his desk, wiping his cheeks with the backs of his hands, before joining her on the couch. "Burroughs came to see me immediately after…"Avery indicated his face with a circle of an index finger. "Turns out, they've been trying to identify the victims in a trove of VHS tapes that were found in a house in Texas. The house once belonged to a couple who took in foster kids, mainly boys, through the late 70's up to the late 90's. Unfortunately for their investigation, moves, fires, changes in the local agency's area of responsibility, and a whole lot of screw ups, a lot of the records were misplaced, lost, or are otherwise unavailable." Avery swallowed and reached for Maureen's untouched glass. Nodding she pushed it closer to him.

"So they have all this evidence, but they can't identify the victims." Maureen thought a moment. "Surely the couple are dead by now, who are they hoping to prosecute?"

Avery took a big gulp of the scotch in Maureen's surrendered glass and answered her. "Funny you should ask, they both died in the early 2000's, but for some reason the contents of that DVD and others from the VHS collection were being posted all over the dark web long after they kicked the bucket. Apparently the couple had a son. After they died he inherited the house in Texas, but he was also at one time the owner of the house in Lynwood where we found Tim Rodriguez…who, by the way, has also been immortalized in some the most revolting corners of the dark web" Avery finished the rest of the dark amber liquid in the glass and slapped it none too gently on the table next to them. "They think he was behind the camera. He has properties scattered all over between LA and Texas, but they've got nothing to conclusively link him to the crimes, other than the fact that he's never held a job but seems to have been able to acquire all that property. It's all just circumstantial. They've only been able to identify two of the boys..." Avery leaned back against the smooth leather of the couch and concluded: "One of them is dead in Scorsese's morgue, and the other is probably drinking himself into oblivion in an Airstream down at the beach."

"They managed to identify Riggs because of the source of the information? Because I reported those text messages?" Maureen leaned towards Avery who straightened up and fixed her with a helpless look.

"Pretty much. When they traced back the source of the text messages to the prison in Amarillo, they matched prisoner records to a list of names they collected from the tapes. There're just first names used, but the FBI have access to the same files you do… they figured it out like you did, just took them less time since they had more information to start with." Avery loosened his tie and swallowed. "Mo, they want to subpoena Riggs as a witness."

"Don't you mean a hostile witness?" Maureen regretted the joke as soon as she's uttered it. "Sorry, that was uncalled for."

"No, you're right" Avery sighed and fixed her with an intense stare, eyes wide in emphasis. "It will destroy him, even you won't be able to put him back together again." Avery sighed again deeply. "How do I protect him from this, Mo?"

Maureen leaned forward and took one of Avery's hands in hers. "Brooks, you can't. I understand why you want to, and I know you're going to try no matter what I tell you, but you can't protect him from this. It's already happened, he's already been hurt by it." Maureen smiled gently and released his hand. "But I'll do my best to help…minimize the damage."

Avery nodded rubbing his hands on his knees before leaning back and crossing his legs. "I've put him on administrative leave and taken him and Murtaugh off the case. I made Special Agent Burroughs promise to let me deliver that subpoena…"He paused and showed her his left hand with its crossed fingers "…after what happened yesterday…I'll try to delay things as much as I can." Avery shrugged and sighed before straightening and giving Maureen a direct look. "If only we knew how Martin's father got hold of those pictures, right?" At her puzzled nod he continued "Then the FBI might be able to tie all this up without involving Riggs..." Avery smiled hopefully.

Maureen interrupted him "…You think that you can avoid telling him? We have to tell him what's going on, Brooks. He'll never trust either of us again if he finds out from anyone else that we knew about this. You know that better than anyone else I know." Maureen paused, biting her lip. "I suppose…"

Avery looked at her curiously "What?"

"Well, we could go to Amarillo and talk to Nathan Riggs first." Maureen grimaced. "I don't think it can make things worse."

"Riggs's going to hate that we did that, if we do." Avery sighed "When talk to him about all this, we're going to have to prepare for the worst - I think it would be wise if he had a lawyer to represent his interests - but he'd never accept that." Maureen and Avery sat side by side in silence, thinking. "You're right, he will need a lawyer…" Maureen paused in reflection. "You know…there's one lawyer he might accept…Trish Murtaugh."

"That would mean telling Trish, and what Trish knows…." Avery pursed his lips and shook his head at her. Maureen interrupted the thought: "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Maureen turned and looked at Avery. "Can you get us in to see Nathan Riggs tomorrow?" Avery looked at his watch and sighed at the lateness of the hour. "I think so. I'll make a few calls."


End file.
